The engine was whining at the red line as they came along the final straight before the house with the barn. Vincent hit the brake and spun the wheel open-palm, whipped the car through the turn into the driveway and then buried the gas for the last dash to the front yard.

He said, ‘Wait here. Keep your head down.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Just wait here. Don’t get out of the car.’

He jumped out and ran to the house. Forsyth already had the door open. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Get in the car. You’re in danger.’

‘What? No—’

‘Who did you call?’

Fear in the man’s eyes. ‘What?’

Vincent checked one front window and then moved to the other. ‘You called someone. Who did you call?’

‘I …’ He was anxious now, heading for the kitchen, hands behind his head like a hostage. The TV was off, and the old man was asleep in his wheelchair.

‘Here, Wayne, look at me. Who did you call?’

Forsyth turned. ‘I called … Jesus, I called Rochelle. I thought Deborah would be with her—’

‘All right, listen to me. Rochelle’s car is parked back up the road. They’ve traced the number from your call, and now they’re here. They must’ve been at her house.’

‘What? No, they can’t—’

‘Wayne: they were at her house, and they took her car, and now they’re here. We’ve got about thirty seconds to be gone.’

‘Oh, Jesus. Is Deborah okay?’

‘I don’t know. But we need to get in the car right now. Where’s Leo?’

Forsyth swore under his breath, ran for the kitchen. The door to the yard was open, and Vincent could see Leo back in his wading pool, cross-legged and splashing himself languidly, like an imitation of a Greek god.

Forsyth shouted, ‘Leo, come inside, now!’

As if yelling at a kid. It got the man on his feet, but he was still in the water. He spread his arms, relaxed, like he’d forgotten he was naked. ‘What’s the problem? Don’t shout at me.’

‘Leo, they’re here, get inside.’

‘What?’

A red bloom opened up on Leo’s chest, and he was looking down at the damage as the sound of the shot reached Vincent’s ears—a half-second delay, maybe—and then he grabbed Forsyth by the collar, hauled him back and onto the floor. The ting of glass breaking as another round came through a window, and then the flat crack of the gunshot. Vincent kicked the door closed and reached up to throw the bolt, grabbed Forsyth again and pulled him toward the hallway. The man was panicked—hyperventilating, saying Leo’s name.

‘This way, hurry! Or I’m leaving you.’